Plastic Paradise

by Daniel Guy

There’s a luxury hotel few people know about, and it is situated on a small island two hundred miles out in the Indian Ocean. It is a place where people go to die.  Imagine a luxury resort, with a fabulous restaurant and tastefully furnished wooden chalets, tucked among the trees, lining a beautiful white sanded beach. You go to Paradise Island on the understanding you will not be leaving. You take all your cash with you. You stay till the money is spent, so either you find your own way of dying, or they do it for you. This is made very clear. When you arrive you sign an agreement to say that you will ‘check yourself out’ as the management euphemistically put it, or trained staff employed by the hotel will be obliged to assist you. Guests are assured that the process would be quick and painless, but few hang around long enough to verify this. Whatever guests decide to do, Paradise Island is a place where they are sure to enjoy their final days.

The resort prides itself on its good reputation. There are experts around to help you decide how you want to die, and to provide you with most up to date, modern resources and equipment. Bodies are discretely buried out to sea late at night.  On the island, barely ten miles in circumference, there is not much to see, just the hotel and some forest and a few houses for the staff, but the resort has plenty to keep the guests amused during their final days. Theres a gym and billiard room, library and a well stocked bar.  There is just one ship that arrives every other day, bringing supplies and new arrivals. Under no circumstances are guests allowed to leave, and the quayside is heavily guarded. 

These days the resort has become a place of excess. If you have the cash, you can have anything you want delivered. Here, you can arrange to fall out of a helicopter or to be fucked to death by whores. The island sits in a part of the ocean densely populated with sharks, and many guests choose to swim out to sea from the golden sandy beach in front of the hotel, confident they’ll be devoured sooner or later.

A popular check-out option is murder, a unique opportunity to enjoy the thrill of killing someone, on the understanding that you will in turn be killed by another guest who seeks the same final thrill before they too are disposed of.  The hotel manager was a little nervous about this at first. The resort prided itself on providing the perfect atmosphere and ambiance for calm and mindful suicide, and in the beginning guests were urged not to kill each other. But in the end the management realised that it was less work for them, so they turned a blind eye. And after all, these ceased to be crimes after a few days, since both the murderer and the victim were be dead. 

Paradise Island is where Tony meets Nicola. She’s mid forties, thin and still pretty. She’s also neurotic. She’s been depressed for years and the moment she found out about Paradise Island she decided it was a sign that the time had come to go. But she’s been here for nearly a year, and her cash runs out in two weeks so she needs to make up her mind soon. She wants to die but is afraid of death. She hates pain. She’s been trying to come up with a suicide method herself, for she’s afraid the death offered by the resort won’t be as painless as the resort claims. 

Tony has just arrived. He has cancer and doesn’t fancy a fight with it. He’s older, and knows exactly how he wants to go. Tony has had a fetish for plastic since he was a small boy and he cannot think of a better way to die than to suffocate slowly inside a clear plastic bag. 

They meet one day on the beach. She’s sipping a white wine one evening, as the setting sun casts an orange glow over the white sand and palm trees. He smiles, says hello and when she smiles back, he wanders over and sits beside her in the sand. 

Here on Paradise Island people rarely engage in much small talk. Time is short and everyone is generally keen on getting the most out of everything. 

Nicola narrates an outline of her miserable past. She tells him she couldn’t stand it, or herself, any longer. Now she’s here her life is at least bearable because it’s almost over. Tony is an arrogant man and quick to tell her why it turned out like that. 

‘Fear is at the root of it all. Fear stopped you from doing everything you wanted to do, fall in love, play the viola, have children and most of all, enjoy life.’

He goes on to tell his story. He, in contrast has been afraid of nothing. He’s never really cared for anyone, including himself, and has suffered a string of horrible marriages, each one destroyed by his affairs with younger women and the result has been that he no friends at all.  Even his children refuse to speak to him. Now he has cancer, the prospect of rotting alone in a hospital bed is not one he fancies. He confesses too that he’s always had a bit of a death wish, because he’s been putting plastic bags over his head since he was twelve and can rarely achieve orgasm any other way.  He tells her that from the moment he arrived on the island he’s been planning his death. 

They wander back to his chalet, so he can show her. Inside, the bedroom has been transformed into a cave of plastic. The walls and bed have been draped with sheets of shiny tinted polythene. It hangs over the window and droops down in over the bed, turning it into a cozy plastic nest. The floor is carpeted with thick shiny black plastic sheeting. Tony tells her he still hasn’t finished decorating the room, but this is where he plans to suffocate. 

Nicola cannot understand how it could possibly be arousing. Tony smiles, and tries to explain.  He reaches for a large black suitcase and opens it up on the floor beside the bed. The case is filled with neatly folded plastic bags. He takes out a bag and unfolds it carefully, as if it were a rare and delicate fabric. The bag is just large enough to cover his head. He holds it out.

‘Feel the softness of the plastic. They’ve stopped making them as good as this. I have very few left.’

Nicola is obliged to feel the thin soft, silky film between her finger and thumb. 

‘A bag that size would give you about three minutes of air,’ he says. 

He fetches out a slightly larger bag and unfolds it with as much care as the first.

‘This one would give you about eight minutes…’  

A third bag is unfolded before Nicola and this one is a rectangular sack of clear plastic, large enough to envelope Tony’s entire body. 

‘And inside this one I reckon I would last about an hour.’ 

He picks up the smallest bag again, and a piece of elastic and sits on the edge of the bed, to demonstrate. 

Nicola watches the bag expand and contract around Tony’s head. She sees the expression of blissful contentment appear on his face. Each time the clear plastic shrink-wraps his face tight till all the contours are smooth and shiny, his eyes close, all the muscles in his face relax, and he smiles.

After a minute of this she starts to get alarmed. He’s taken off his swimming shorts and is rubbing his dick. She is embarrassed by this as well, but for some reason she is able to force herself not to bolt. This time, perhaps she has found some courage. 

After he ejaculates, he takes the bag off and flops back exhausted on the bed. She sits on the chair in the corner of the room and watches him as his breathing rate slowly returns to normal.  She gets up and goes outside to have a cigarette, while he showers and dresses. When she returns, she finds herself agreeing to take one of his plastic bags away with her, so she can try it for herself. 

The following morning they meet on the terrace for breakfast. 

‘Well, did you try it?’ he asks, casually as he butters his croissant. 

Nicola blushes a little. She tells him she got frightened and panicked the moment she put the bag over her head. 

‘You see? Fear again. You should just stop being afraid all the time.’

She says nothing and the conversation becomes stilted and cold. 

Finally he puts down his coffee cup, reaches across the table and places his hand on her forearm. Nicola wants to recoil at once but instead she freezes. 

‘Listen. I have a proposal. You say your time will be up on Sunday. Well, I have decided I will do it on Saturday night. And if you haven’t decided to go by then, well then I would like you to come and join me. I will do it at midnight on Saturday.  If you join me, we could do it together.’ 

Nicola looks up at him. She doesn’t know what to say.

He smiles.

‘OK, well think about it. I would really like it if you did. It would be very horny indeed to watch you die with me, that’s all.’ 

He gets up and returns to his lodge. 

For the next three days, Tony does not see Nicola. Not at breakfast or on the beach, or anywhere around the hotel. Perhaps she has gone quietly. He asks at the desk whether Nicola has checked out. She hasn’t. 

One night he is strolling on the beach, a little pissed, looking in wonderment up at a trillion bright stars. He glances back and sees the light on in Nicola’s chalet. He thinks of paying her a visit, but he’s just drunk a bottle of champagne and decides he might end up doing something to embarrass her further. 

Saturday night comes. Tony has completed all the final tasks, written on his notepad. He’s gone to reception to confirm his check-out time.  (Owing to the hot climate, the management request all visitors must give notice of their check-out times, so that bodies are not left in the rooms for long.)  He’s eaten the finest meal on offer at the restaurant and has drunk a bottle of expensive wine and half a bottle of good French Brandy. The other half he takes back to his chalet. He sits on the step outside the door and smokes a joint he’s been saving for this very moment. He looks at his watch and then goes into the chalet, making sure the door is left slightly ajar, just in case. 

Everything has been meticulously prepared. The four pairs of hand cuffs tied to each corner of the plastic covered bed have been checked and double checked. The keys to them all he ceremoniously threw into the sea that afternoon. There is nothing left to do. The moment has arrived. 

He puts on his favourite music, a recording of Bach’s French Suites and lets music play softly in the background. He lights the candles, switches off the light. He strips. He takes a final swig from the brandy bottle. He looks around the room. He is already erect. He walks around the bed, allowing the silky soft plastic sheets to caress his skin. He’s loved this feeling all his life.  He lies on the bed. He clasps his ankles first. He pulls a clear plastic sheet up over his body. The feel of the thin soft plastic over the tip of his cock brings him to the point of orgasm, but he holds back. He picks up the medium sized bag and slips it over his head. He picks up the long black strip of rubber. 

He remembers the nightmare he had the night before, when he had reached this very point and then tied the bag and then cuffed his hands only to realise then that he had not sealed the bag properly and air was able to enter. He was never going to die like that, and in the end he had to call out till someone came in to rescue him. 

So this time he makes sure. He checks and double checks that the rubber strap around his neck has sealed the bag airtight. Then he locks one wrist in a cuff and is able with the other to rest his wrist in the jaw and push so that the cuff locks itself. 

He is at last in heaven. He tests the cuffs, first his legs and then his arms and is satisfied that they are securely tied. He cannot escape. Now he doesn’t care a jot. 

The door opens. He smiles. He sees the silhouette of Nicola. She closes the door gently behind her. She stands in the shadow behind a sheet of pink tinted curtain of polythene and undresses. She sees a large clear plastic sack, neatly folded on the bedside table and on top of it a pair of hand cuffs and a rubber strap. She picks them up. She pulls back the sheet, climbs onto the bed, sits astride Tony’s cock. She lays the cuffs down onto Tony’s chest. She opens up the long sack and slips it over her head till it cascades down her sides. She picks up the rubber strap and seals it around her neck so her head is airtight. She picks up the cuffs and clasps her wrists behind her back. She lifts herself till she is able to slide down till Tony’s cock is inside her. She begins to rock gently, so his cock can slide in and out. She can feel him between her thighs, twisting and writhing. Though the room is dimly lit, he can just about see her through his plastic mask, and enjoy the sight of her lovely wrapped breasts in front of him.

Tony has left the curtains open and outside three of the ground staff are looking in through the window. They are all masturbating.  

Soon Nicola and Tony are gasping for breath. Their air is running out now. They are grinding and writhing in noisy and frenzied delight. It is at this point that for a moment both of them wish they could embrace each other, but of course this is not possible. So they continue to fuck their final fuck till at last they’re blasted away to orgasmic bliss, both desperate for air, both soaked in sweat, all sanity driven from their minds. She continues to ride him hard, till finally her thrusts begin to wane, as she slips slowly out of consciousness, and then both bodies are still and clenched for a moment, the bags sucked tight against their faces, and then as they fill out slowly one final time, she sags and flops down over him.  The music stops, the candle flames cease flickering and the room becomes still and silent. The men outside stare in, their noses pressed against the window. One ejaculates into his trousers, another against the wall of the chalet. The show is over and one by one, they slip away.

Daniel Guy.